Bad Blood
by deyavi
Summary: Alucard's life before Hellsing. Prequel to Silent Night. Rated M for safety.
1. Pain Forever

Author's note: Holy crap this has been long in coming. This chapter isn't going to make much sense . . . thankfully, sense isn't what I was aiming for. Enjoy!

_Hot skin, cold steel table at his back. A terrible pain was building in his skull and threatening to explode in his chest. It took him several minutes to understand why he couldn't move, until he saw the silver manacles fastening his wrists and ankles to the steel surface. A woman clothed in medical scrubs was sliding a needle into his arm when a shadow behind her slit her throat and held the woman above him so that the thick stream of red poured into his mouth. He fed. The shadow took hold of the stake embedded into his chest and yanked it free, and he screamed. A grimace fixed onto its face, the shadow opened a black book and picked up the sharp tools lying on the tray and set to work. Through the agony, a name spilled from his lips over and over. He called out through the long night to a savior who did not come._

"Malakai!"

_Even half conscious, he could still recognize the tormentor who stabbed into his flesh with needles and scalpels and drained his blood. The voice that had condemned him for his obsessive love was the very same that whispered dark incantations in his ears and called out orders for his own men to die so that he would be fed . . . he cursed weakly, praying to a god he did not believe in for these nights to end. To be allowed to die. Anything to make the pain stop._

_But then . . . the shadow disappeared . . . and the soldiers guarding his door went away too. And when they left, so did the sweet warmth of blood they dripped into his mouth while they burned and cut and branded him._

_His body was broken. They had torn apart his chest to play with his insides and put something in there, something dark that called his name. His hands had been used as a canvas for a scorching brand. He reached inward to find the shadow of his powers to release him from the manacles that bound him and found nothing. Nothing. Hours ticked away in his mind and he kept searching. But there was nothing there to find._

_His body began to heal. The precious blood they had fed him began to fuel his body as the flesh knitted itself back together. But the pain didn't stop. It would never stop, not ever, his punishment. Bloodlust began to burn in his veins, his throat. He felt like he was suffocating. It didn't take long for him to begin screaming. And not long at all for him to start hallucinating. Memories buried deep beneath three centuries of bloodshed emerged in his pain-induced delirium._

"Malakai . . ."

He's never coming. I'll never see him again.

_31 days of confinement in the dark cell. 31 days and nights alone. He was barely alive. There wasn't a shred of sanity left in him. He was a monster in a man's body. Something gentle reached for him from far away. Something cool and soft. He lashed out at it with what was left of his mind. It enveloped him._

Vlad.

Malakai . . .

Remember me.


	2. Like Poison

Author's note: You can't imagine how sorry I am that I've left this neglected for so long. If you are still interested, if you're still even bothering to read this, thank you. I hope that I do not disappoint... but then, can the story of Malakai and Alucard really disappoint?

That hatred had never been articulated, never expressed in any overt gesture or action, but he felt it nonetheless. And he did not understand it.

What had he ever done to deserve his father's hatred of him? He didn't know.

But for all his life, the dark cloud – the impenetrable wall – between him and his father remained, though his father never once made a show of it and was even moved, at times, to show him affection and praise. In fact, his father was an excellent parent, providing for all his needs and giving him the appropriate level of attention at all times. Still, that bitterness between them…

It wasn't until he was much older that he understood. After all… men could not be expected to respond perfectly and serenely to the death of their wife during childbirth. That his father had taken his duty toward his living child seriously and cared for him as he had was admirable. Even so. Perhaps, if Vlad II had loved his son, he might not have sent him away, and none of this would have happened…

Red-faced, sweating, she screamed and screamed, her hands fisted tightly. Hands soothed her brow and she shook them off, couldn't stand the feeling; there was too much sensation already. Down there. Pressure, and deep tearing, and wetness. She wanted this baby out. Out! OutoutoutoutoutpleaseOUT!

And then the wailing. Her last scream echoed off the stone, mingling with the first cries of her son, the fruits of her long, long labor. How long had she been trying in vain to force the child out? Hours? Days? Two days… Oh, but there was so much blood, she heard them whispering of it as they let her cradle the baby in her arms. And truly, she felt so light, and the world was so dim…

The infant was very soon left to scream alone, raging at a world in which he found himself now motherless.

Vlad II paced the tower, contemplating the message from his neighbor and ally, brought to him earlier that evening. He held his son, bouncing the baby gently as he slept. Vlad III, his heir. His consolation. A healthy child in exchange for a wife. It was… fair. He grimaced.

The letter spoke of happiness, of the birth of a healthy son, named Malakai after the dead brother of the father. The healthy mother who, it was hoped, would soon be ready to provide another child. Another lively son, or perhaps, a girl. Since Beniamin had his heir, he didn't mind the idea of a female child so much. The joy and pride written into the letter cut deeply.

Vlad II touched the place where he'd tucked the letter away, staring out at the darkening sky. They were hoping that he would be making an appearance at his home soon.

No. It was not fair.

Vlad Dracul III cringed as the stranger placed a large hand on his shoulder. It was gentle, but the touch repulsed him.

"I am Beniamin."

Vlad looked to his father, who frowned at him. Courtesy was expected of him. But surely his father remembered?

The young heir was not fooled by the false kindness. He would not be drawn in by the gentle affection his father's friend showed him. He recalled all too well that there had been no gentleness in the way Beniamin had dealt with his wife and 4-year-old son upon discovering them kneeling before a pagan altar. And no, Vlad would not forget the way blood had colored his hands as he tended the wounds on Malakai's little body when he'd come to them, broken and dying. Oh, Vlad was a child still. But even children could recognize evil when they saw it.

"My lord. We are grateful that you have come."

Beniamin smiled.

+++

"God forgive me. Father, forgive me. I have sinned," Vlad mumbled as he spat, washing his mouth and, he hoped, his soul.

It was wrong to lie. And Vlad had told so many more lies tonight than he ever had before in his life.

He flopped down on the grass, his hand seeking Malakai's, hoping. A year since Malakai had come to them, barely alive. Six years they had been friends. Surely Malakai would forgive him for playing courteous host? Especially since it meant Malakai's continued survival here. Vlad's father had charged him with protecting and caring for the boy.

Beniamin scoured the country still, searching high and low for the son he'd nearly killed. Whatever Vlad II's feelings were on the incident, he said nothing and showed nothing but the utmost respect, hospitality, and even affection for his ally. But still, he had allowed Malakai to remain, never informing Beniamin that he had found the lost child, tending to the boy's every need.

As Vlad III and Malakai held hands, sprawled out on the grass by the stream, Vlad vowed he'd never betray his friend. Never, ever. Not for all the gentle smiled and soft words in the world. Somehow he sensed that Beniamin knew his son was here. He knew, however, that Beniamin would never find him. Vlad's father had seen to it, whatever his reasons.

"How long?" Malakai whispered.

"Seven days."

Malakai's hold on his hand tightened as he nodded. They lay on the grass in silence.

The boy's body had healed quickly, but the torment he'd suffered left his mark. Malakai barely spoke above a whisper, could barely stand to be touched. And he never spoke to women. Vlad wondered how deeply the mental trauma of watching his mother being raped by his father went, that to interact with any woman brought him fear. Fear that something terrible would befall any woman who showed him kindness. Malakai's voice was sweet, so unlike the high-pitched wails of other children. He played like a wild thing when he was with Vlad, his companion and brother. But he became gentle and stepped so lightly when there were females around.

Soon, the boys slumbered beneath the stars. Vlad II came upon them as they slept and stood contemplating them for a time.

He felt a rare sense of pride in his offspring. Fondness he didn't often feel swelled in his heart. The boy was honorable. He protected his brother from an enemy much stronger and far more formidable than himself. In so doing, he also protected his father, the alliance with Beniamin and his people still strong despite the deception of keeping Malakai in this place.

The rare moment lasted a few heartbeats longer as he watched the boys sleep. He nudged the boys awake with his boot and marched them back quietly to the castle. They lay down on a floor pallet prepared for them in the tower and returned to sleep. Vlad II retired to his chambers to find a few hours' rest himself.

For the rest of the week, the boys played rampantly by night. But during the day they remained carefully hidden in the tower where Vlad's mother had died. Neither Beniamin nor any member of his party ever saw them.

Soon, Beniamin took his leave. He was convinced that his son was hidden away elsewhere, as surely as he was convinced that his son was still alive. Relief crashed over Castle Dracul as he departed. Tension that had filled the halls dissipated, and the brows of fearful servants smoothed. They were safe. The alliance was intact. Malakai had not been discovered.

The sweet, rowdy children were once again free to run amok in the castle. And so they did. Time passed, and soon the hours for playing became less and less. Vlad was suddenly expected to learn the ways of lordship, and Malakai was set down to difficult lessons fitting his quick mind. Numbers, letters, weapons, horses, soldiers, poetry, and culture filled their days. Soon, however, the level of dependence Vlad II sensed in his son toward his companion prompted him to send Vlad III away for a summer. To learn to perfect his skills as a warrior, he was told. He sent the boy to the house or his ally, where it was said there were great fighters in service.

Perhaps, if Vlad II had loved his son, he might not have sent him away…


End file.
